The Subtle Art of Agony
by metacognitive
Summary: You know what they say about trouble.


Title: The Subtle Art of Agony  
Summary: You know what they say about trouble. Laura, from Beacon Hills to New York and back.  
Character(s): Laura Hale, Derek Hale  
Notes: Laura-feels because, why not. Summary/quote from Pull Me Down by Mikky Ekko. Each section written to the corresponding song (list below).  
Also: why isn't Laura listed as a character? This saddens me.

Fanmix:  
Revelry | Kings of Leon  
Push | Matchbox 20  
Constant Conversations | Passion Pit  
Everlong | Foo Fighters  
The Scientist | Coldplay

* * *

_two punk kids up against the world/yeah, trouble, there goes trouble_

* * *

Six weeks after Laura has to bury her parents, after a visit to Uncle Peter, wrapped in gauze and decidedly not healing, she grabs Derek by the back of his shirt and throws him into her Camaro. Laura has never been a girl's girl, never liked frilly things, though she had an appreciation for scarves and for the mechanic who worked in the middle of Beacon Hills. She's wearing an oversized leather jacket she'd stolen from him during a rendezvous, though she'd been smarter than Derek when it came to seeing humans.

She growls at the thought, ignores Derek's somewhat fearful look as he glances at her from the other side of the car. The feral side of her—made more intense by her new Alpha status—makes her want to force submission from him, punish him the way he deserves to be. But Laura is his sister first and she won't add more hurt to the guilt that already exists, _rightfully so_, within him. But neither one of them can stand the town anymore, so it's after a final goodbye to Peter that they leave. She doubts he can hear or understand her but then again, she almost hopes he can't.

The first place they stop is a crappy little motel and Laura, still sorting out insurance policies, has too little cash to spare and settles on a room with a king in it. Derek still has a few more inches to go, and for the moment he's just a bit taller than her, five-nine to her five-seven. They stare at each other when they enter the musty room, dank and smelling far too humid. She shoves him after a moment, two fingers at his breastbone, and he stumbles back, not expecting the movement or the force behind it. She does it again, and he staggers again, until the back of his knees hit the bed, and she's standing over him, sprawled.

Neither speaks until she says, "What have you _done_," and those are the only words to pass between them until New York.

* * *

Laura can't _stand_ New York. The Malabe pack is kind enough, generous in allowing them a room in their cramped building while she and Derek figure out what to do. She knows what it looks like—a boy who reeks of misery and his Alpha, young and inexperienced, two orphans thrown into a world they knew only by instinct. Laura has no idea what happened to the Bestiary, will have to live off the memories of her mother's teachings. At nineteen she was being taught but she was far from an expert on anything. She hopes that nothing happens to them anymore; neither one of them can handle it, and she's not sure if they ever will be able to.

What she doesn't like about New York—besides the close quarters, the scent of sex and disgust, and too many people in too little space—also happens to be that same Malabe pack, despite their efforts to aid them. The Alpha's sister gets to her in the worst way, despite the very obvious fact that she loves her pack and her own daughters. Laura isn't stupid. She knows that the lingering of the youngest of this woman's daughters is done more for loyalty than any interest.

She likes the girl well enough; she knows Derek though, and she doesn't trust him, not yet. She probably won't for awhile. Then again, from what she can tell from the other's sparring, she'd be a good partner. A good pack member. But this place is not one where she plans on staying long and so she tries to let it show, just a bit, that the girl's interference is unwanted.

(She finds out a little later that it was more fascination and, of course, the obedience that is forcibly bred into a large pack in an urban city, that kept the young woman coming back, despite the age differences and Derek's own animosity.)

* * *

She crawls into Derek's bed the night after they move out, the skies of New York seeming to be permanently gray despite the heat the overpopulated streets always give off. He's warm, half asleep, and she keeps as close the edge as she can. His little twin doesn't fit him, ankles lingering over the edge, and she makes a note to buy him a better bed. She's in a full that's just big enough for her, limbs and all, but still. Derek starts when she slips under the covers, on her side to look at him.

He rolls over to her, bleary, and says, "Laura?" like she's a ghost, too.

The need to just hold him physically hurts her but she can't do it, doesn't know when she'll be able to will herself to. She hasn't forgiven him and probably never will but Laura misses her brother so much sometimes, the little boy who had to grow up in thirty seconds, the same one blinking at her across the six inches of bed that separate them. He had liked high school, had worked at the veterinary clinic—a fact she'd mocked him relentlessly for. Their mother looked so much like him, so much it hurts to look at him sometimes, but she swallows the bitterness. Looking in the mirror is painful, too, because all she sees is her father staring at her, eyes wrinkled at the corners.

Pretending is something Laura is going to have to get used to.

Because there's something different between the two of them now—and there should be, if she's being honest. It's not just that he led a killer to their door, it's that she's _better_ now, bigger and stronger and far more deadly than the sister he grew up with. And Derek's mistake is irreversible, impossible to look past. She _hates_ him, she hates herself, she hates those monsters that killed her parents, her cousins, her life, but she says to him, "I love you, Derek."

It's comfort enough to see the pain fade from his features as he mumbles a sleepy, "You, too," before slipping away from her.

* * *

Finally though, New York starts to feel like home, with her finishing up what little school she could to try and support herself and Derek, making sure she sent him to college in the process. She keeps in contact with the Malabe girl; in the back of her head, she knows it's her own way of making sure Derek ends up okay. If he can make it with the Dominican wolf who doesn't expect anything from life? Well, then, it would be too perfect for them to mess up.

And everything looks like it's going to be okay. She's got a job, and most importantly she's dating—the urge to strengthen the pack is getting stronger, and she wonders if Derek feels it too. Two is not enough for her to feel safe, to feel whole. She needs a husband and little heirs, darling children with her eyes and chin. She wonders if any of the Malabe boys are available but then rids herself of the illusion; she'd rather not get involved with the family, even if she still believes that Derek's best bet is with the youngest of the cousins.

But then she gets a tip. A letter from an anonymous fool in Beacon Hills, talking about the fire that killed her family while her brother was at school and she was in the middle of a romp with the mechanic from downtown. She wonders if he's still single before wincing, shaking away the thought. Her family was murdered in that town and now it seems as if someone is confessing. She frowns at the letter, waits for more, and when her silent pleas are answered she tracks down Malabe one last time, makes her promise to take care of Derek—steadfastly ignoring the diamond on the woman's finger.

She's going home, and she doesn't know what's hiding there, only that whatever it is might make things better…or even worse.

* * *

It was a Thursday, Laura remembers, attempting to pull back all the details as she tries to make sense of the man standing in front of her. It _is_ Peter, she knows this, but there is something so inherently wrong in the way he stands in front of her that she nearly takes a step back. Almost wishes she does.

The night before the fire, Laura had gone to her mechanic's house, had begged off responsibilities and claimed to be staying with a friend. It wasn't the truth, but it wasn't a lie, either. He took her to a movie, bought her popcorn, and they held hands as the credits rolled. She let him run his fingers up her thigh, thinking about the sure thing that awaiting them on his ratty futon-bed. Laura could do better but the boy was pretty enough that she was willing to ignore a lot.

She was a demanding little thing though, waking him up whenever she felt like another roll in the hay, and by the time she woke up it was to him starting a _very_ late breakfast in the next room, her phone blaring a too-loud tizzy of bells. The call nearly went to voicemail in her struggle to decipher the numbers, before she finally decided to roll with it, answering it with a thick, "Hello?"

"Miss Hale?" the voice said, distinctly male and with the undercurrent of worry. Laura immediately sat up, still naked, and ignored the mechanic as he peeked into the room. The thin blankets polled on her thighs.

"Speaking," Laura said, far more awake then, "may I ask who—?"

"Miss Hale," the voice interrupted, "this is Officer Stilinski. We're going to need you to come into the station. There's been a…an accident."

Laura froze, spine stiffening, and she said, breathless suddenly, "What? Who? Is everyone—"

"Please, Miss Hale, we need you to come in."

That tone of voice, and the resulting soft eyes and scent that reeked of pity is what Laura remembers, is what she clings to, as what _was_ her Uncle Peter lunges towards her, claws sharp and stinging and _deadly_ as her throat bares to him unthinkingly.

.

.

.


End file.
